


I have seen no other who compares with you

by hypotheticalfanfic



Category: Spartacus Series (TV)
Genre: Cheese, Dogs, Goat Farm, Goats, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-01
Updated: 2018-03-01
Packaged: 2019-03-25 15:13:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13837413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hypotheticalfanfic/pseuds/hypotheticalfanfic
Summary: After the Bringer of Rain, time moves as a river, carrying forward all caught up in its path.





	I have seen no other who compares with you

**Author's Note:**

> A million billion thanks to my amazing people who read this for me and made it anything worth looking at.
> 
> @popchop  
> @TheGoblinMatriarch  
> @giraffeter  
> @awnutts

 

For the first few weeks after the Bringer of Rain was laid to rest, all was peace and sorrow, quiet joy. Nasir tended Agron’s many wounds. Agron stared as if Nasir stood the only man in existence. They did not speak often, but touched always unless forced to part by emergency (bandits, a stray cohort of Romans, hungry wolves on the road). Continued existence a miracle long fought for, scarcely able to be seen. This lasted longer than, in thinking on it later, Nasir had any right to expect.

Then came sour times. They squabbled over everything, over nothing, over bandages and healing slowness, over Nasir’s failure to tend to his own wounds, over guard duties and sleeping space, over the very clothes they wore. They fought, too, about Agron’s abandonment, about Nasir’s refusal to save himself, over suitors now dead and the few rebels in need yet living. It was as though all sweetness had drained away, and both despaired of ever finding again that light. They spoke of it to no one.

Of course, there were those who heard, who could not avoid hearing. In a small camp, there is difficulty in not hearing men hissing cruelty and pain at one another. The two avoided shouting only for lack of privacy, avoided brawling for wounds yet weeping. Dark-haired Sibyl offered aid once, to carry one of three water-bucket yokes Agron wore slung over broad shoulders. The rebuff was icy and short in a way Agron had never been with her, nor with any other survivors. Laeta knew better than to approach the man until his rage had lessened, but her attempts to commiserate with Nasir over shared losses met with stony silence, a blank face. The other rebels, Saxa’s woman Belesa, the medicus and his assistant: none were welcomed into breach. 

In mountain’s cold air, Agron kept his own counsel. He listened, and took in, and considered, absent discussion with advisors or allies. When decision was reached, he announced and took action. This had been his way since youth, a mirror to his brother, who had chattered of every plan to anyone in earshot since he had begun to babble. Agron spoke when speech was needed, and acted where action took force. Of course, if drink or fear or berserker bloodlust rose and took hold of Agron, well, fuck the gods. All hell would break loose, and Jupiter himself stood no equal to Agron’s rage.

Nasir would never admit it, but for this small moment, there was something deserving of gratitude in Agron’s injuries earned on the cross. He could not throw a solid punch, could not swing a sword nor strike with spear nor grasp a throat for choking. Nasir would not make claim of his lover’s helplessness, lest Agron take mind to prove otherwise, but fighting with body was, for the moment, beyond the larger man’s ability. Fighting with words was not so, and it seemed the narrowing made Agron’s tongue sharper, temper shorter, with each passing day. Nasir, as if in answer, could not stop his own mouth from spouting worst thoughts, cruelest cuts, mind lying in wait to cause injury. Neither man could face the other without shame building to rage and ebbing away again to shame.

This season of pain lasted longer than those watching had hoped. They survived one week, then another, and still the two bit and snapped, fighting dogs circling and seeking out opportunity to lunge. Worse were days when they could not summon a fight, when they moved as though the other did not exist, when neither spoke nor looked at the other. 

/////

Of the few hundred rebels left alive, only seven or eight were trained fighting men, and perhaps a dozen fighting women. The rest found ways to be of use: learned from the medicus, foraged and hunted, cooked and mended, washed blood out of cloth, nursed the babes. Belesa had been a body slave and worked in a whorehouse, none of which gave her the skills to master needed work, but idleness was not permitted, so she made attempt. “Go fuck and see tension eased,” Belesa said, provoked giggles from a gaggle of women nearby as she wrapped one of the younger babes in a cloth. It squirmed, and despite her general disinterest in having babes of her own, she could not stop a smile. “I’m right, aren’t I, little Cyprianus? They just need to have a good long fuck.”

Pollux and Lydon, two of the living gladiators, stood watch some distance away, but Belesa heard them both try to hide laughter. She looked over to them. “Break words and tell me I am wrong, then,” she called, teasing. Lydon shrugged and Pollux moved one hand to cover grinning mouth. She laughed, turned back to the babe. “I am not learned, but I know some things.”

If Agron or Nasir had considered that course of action, neither had made haste to complete it. Agron’s hands were not his only wounds, and Nasir stood steadfast in refusal of rest to heal his own battered body. This, too, they fought over, the wish for touch masked as concern for the other’s pain. They shared a tent, but no longer a bedroll. Slept fitfully, cold and angry on opposite sides. Nights stretched. They crested one mountain, then another. Weather grew warmer, food more plentiful. Days passed, and nights.

As they crested the last of the mountains between them and lands east of the Rhine, some indefinable ease creeped back into the rebels. They could see, now, the land the Bringer of Rain had sent them to, could see where they might carve out a hard life free of chains. Bright-eyed Aemelia gave forth a strong son, proud Leviticus the father, and wine was procured by means Nasir knew not. The revelry served, too, to honor the months now since the Bringer of Rain’s final words, to welcome tidings of new and changing fortune. Belesa danced with the other women, laughed at Pollux’s clumsy attempts to woo her away. Laeta and Sibyl played with toddling children, keeping them a safe distance from fire, from river, from drunken swordbearers. Leviticus whispered sweet words to the babe, wrapped tight and dozing. The others cheered and sang, danced and laughed, and apart from them all sat a dark-eyed man, forgotten meat on a platter at his feet.

An amphora drained of wine clattered to the ground by Nasir’s seat. “It aches, this distance,” Agron said, his voice just blurred along the edges. The man had not spoken to any but the medicus for days. Had not so much as looked at Nasir for longer.

Nasir took in a sharp breath. Long silence, ticked around edges by celebration around them. “It does.” Words rose like bile - _this is your fault, stubborn stupid ox_ \- but he swallowed them. The weather grew warmer each day. Nasir was tired.  “Will you sit?”

Agron nodded, bit back his own cruel jabs, carefully levered himself down to the ground. “I may have need of you to raise me up again, as I am an old and crotchety man now.”

Nasir snorted. “Look at the old man there, the gladiator. He capers about as if a young goat.” Agron looked where Nasir’s hand pointed, then traced back along the smaller man’s arm, caught dark eyes with his own. A long moment.  

“You are my heart, Nasir. I have behaved as—“

“We both have,” Nasir interrupted. “I spoke from—“

Agron placed one stiff hand on Nasir’s cheek. It would not bend to cup, but Nasir leaned into touch anyway. “No words of past pain need pass between us. Can we begin anew?”

Nasir closed his eyes, breathed. Opened them. “My name is Nasir. I am a warrior.”

Agron grinned. “Agron, a gladiator.”

“I have heard tale of gladiators,” Nasir said dryly, took a sip of his own cup of wine. 

“Only good things, I hope.”

Nasir shook his head, let firelight dance in dark hair. “Only that they fuck like the gods.”

Agron laughed then, the first time Nasir had heard him laugh freely since they had begun to cross gods-cursed mountains. “Would you ask for demonstration, to prove the legend so?”

“You look ten years younger when you smile,” Nasir said. He had not meant to, had only thought it as he had a hundred times before. 

Agron’s face softened. “You look, always, as though carved from stone and given life by Venus herself.” From first meeting, Agron’s compliments carried with them sincerity that burned too bright to look directly at, laid bare the golden warmth at core of anger and strength. Nasir had learned, once, how to hear soft words from the gladiator. He could learn to do so again. 

He reached one hand out, pulled Agron’s face toward his own. 

They had kissed, soft and short, some few times since leaving behind the Bringer of Rain beneath a pile of stones. Kisses to be certain the other stood real and solid, kisses to ease a hiss of pain at bandages and salves and cold hands, kisses to fall asleep of a night, kisses to clear tears from cheek when terror in dreams shook them awake. With sour times of late, they had not touched, much less kissed. This felt, then, as that first kiss on stone steps had. Then, Agron had given something of a promise to a freshly wounded Nasir, had shown to all watching what depth of feeling had grown between them. This, too, felt a promise, a reclamation, a beginning. At first it was as tentative, as gentle, as that first moment. Then it began to change. 

Agron tilted first, leaned further in, turned Nasir’s head with his own to curl the smaller man against him. Hesitant for a moment, but then with sudden spark, Nasir opened mouth, sought Agron’s upper lip, bit gently in the way he knew Agron liked. Felt the gladiator’s smile against his own, felt the kiss deepen, felt heat rush to warm their faces. They found again the rhythm they had once mastered, push and pull, nip and smile and fervently seek the other. Nasir wrapped one hand in Agron’s shaggy mane, pulled him in closer as though they could meld to one flesh. Both men heard soft sounds, pants and small gasps, whines of needs not yet met, and knew them to spring from their own lungs. A half-healed cut on one of their lips sprang open, leaked hot blood that stood ignored as the two wrapped arms around each other as if still in winter’s coldest night.

“What did I tell you,” Agron heard distant voice call. Belesa crowed as though she had won a match upon the sands. He broke away from Nasir’s mouth just long enough to aim a grin, bloodied and fierce, at the woman, who laughed in return. 

When he looked back at Nasir, the smaller man was smiling, eyes open and calm in a way they had not been in many weeks. “What would you have of me, Nasir?”

“I would have you lay with me tonight, and every night hereafter.” Nasir, too, could be a man of bold word and bald intent, when he so chose. He looked steadily into the sea-green eyes of the man he loved, where he saw joy mingled with yearning, all sorrow and pain seemingly tucked away for the night.

“All I long for in this world,” Agron said, voice hoarse, “is to do so.” He leaned forward again, pressed soft lips to smile. “I did not joke of needing your aid to stand, though.” The two men laughed, and hearts lightened as though the holes in Agron’s hands had mended. There was more work to do, Agron knew. Firstly the standing and moving to their tent and whatever would come after, and no doubt more talk and more fights, apologies offered in earnest, but not yet. Not now. He kissed Nasir again, trailed fingertips down the man’s neck, felt strong tendons, felt a beating pulse. Life jumped within the smaller man, and he felt flame within himself spark in answer. He could see a path, a clear journey for them to that burn of love and lust, that joy in each other shared again, whole and true. All he had ever needed was a way forward, and for Nasir to walk it with him.

/////

Some days later, they fucked. That night, and a few to follow, they lay in their tent together, kissed and touched with heat but no drive to move further. They learned, again, how to be together. Agron found the spots on Nasir’s neck that drove the younger man to squirm in pleasure. Nasir reminded his lover of greed in kisses and hands upon chest. They awoke wrapped together as braided cord, and each morning they paused to take note: this was real, this was now, they were here together. 

Agron’s nail-torn hands could not grip, not tightly, and he could neither bend them further nor straighten them. Some of his fumblings frustrated him, brought a rolling wave of shame, but Nasir kissed his lover breathless and pinned him to the ground. Took away some displeasure with burning kisses, licked long stripes up the gladiator’s chest, stroked down ribs with firm hands. 

This night, though, shame held no place in their tent. “Fuck the gods,” Agron swore, “I shall have hands that work if only to grasp your cock.” Nasir’s mouth worked down towards his subligaria, pressed lips and tongue and teeth to sensitive skin, to pink new scars, to hard muscle and ticklish flesh. Agron felt rather than heard Nasir’s low laugh. He looked up at dirty fabric of tent, took heavy breaths as Nasir’s clever fingers unwound the wrap around him. A pause. He looked back down to his lover, who stared at his cock as though the man had never seen it. “Nasir? Is all well?” 

Nasir shook all over, like a dog out of water, and met his eyes. “I have missed you,” he said simply. “All of you.” Then, a wicked grin spreading, Nasir lowered to place mouth upon cock, and Agron looked helplessly back up, a stream of curses pouring from him. The smaller man held one hand upon Agron’s hip, pressed down, and Agron knew well the smack he would get were he to thrust too hard. Agron’s body remembered the feel of Nasir around it, atop it, remembered this same heat and movement, and if tears sprang from Agron’s eyes when his cock reached release, they sprang from joy of rightness alone.

Nasir kissed his way back up Agron’s broad chest, up and up to Agron’s mouth. The man could taste himself on his lover’s tongue, could taste, too, salt tears upon Nasir’s cheeks to match his own. “Let me—“

“I have a better idea,” Nasir rolled away, and every inch of Agron’s skin screamed protest. He reached dumb hands to the other man’s back, traced stiff fingertips along curve of spine. Nasir glanced back over shoulder, fond smile on lips and sweat upon brow. Agron shook head, struck dumb by beauty. “You are a gift from the gods.”

Nasir rolled back over, hands slick with oil from bedside amphora. “Then obey me. Turn,” he ordered, “onto one side, your back to me.”

“I would face you, were you to fuck me,” Agron protested. He preferred them face-to-face, although cupped front-to-back was often easier. They had, when still in Rome’s grasp, made quick study of various positions. Expediency demanded certain sacrifice.

“And when I fuck you, you shall face me, and when you fuck me, the same again, but this is not that.” Nasir nudged Agron’s shoulder, his hands dripping oil onto the bedroll. “Move, you ox.”

Agron snorted, provoked his lover’s laugh, rolled to one side as ordered. Warm wet touch of oil to cleft of ass shocked him. He moved, perhaps flinched.

“Agron, is all well?” Nasir paused, let Agron look back over shoulder. 

“Tickled,” Agron muttered. It had not, had only surprised him, but a gladiator should not be an easy scare. He felt his thoughts threaten to lower into shame again. Nasir seemed to feel it, and Agron nearly cried out gratitude as his lover’s long hands smoothed oil along his ass, between his legs. The man’s touch alone was cause for joy, but more so now, heated and slick. Agron could feel pleasure coiling in his belly as his lover streaked him with oil. Long strong strokes of hands upon him, no hurry, only pleasure built and savored.

“Stand you ready?” his lover whispered. For answer, Agron reached one numb hand behind him, pulled Nasir’s face to his own. This kiss was searing, hungry, and Nasir’s slick hand gripped Agron’s hip hard enough to leave mark. When they broke apart, both men grinned.

Nasir slid cock between Agron’s legs, shifted hips, pulled the larger man closer to him. Agron did remember, now, doing this at a villa whose dominus had pressed oil. They had then, for once, had more than enough to commandeer their own double share. Sparing use made small bowls last, but this had been the first time they’d had plenty for purposes other than food or scraping skin. The rebels had not struck another oil-presser’s villa, and so had not often repeated the experience. Nasir’s teeth on earlobe interrupted his memory, brought him back to heat and slick and heavy breaths. 

Together they moved, relearned rhythm. Agron clutched one numb hand behind him, held Nasir flush against his back. Felt his lover’s cock slide against ass, against sensitive skin between ass and cock, against balls and base of shaft. “Fuck the gods, Nasir, I have missed you.” 

An answering groan against his shoulder, and Agron could not stop a smile. Nasir moved slow at first; as memory returned he pressed fingers into flesh, teeth to neck, breath became short and hard. “Your fucking thighs, Agron,” the man groaned, felt muscles begin to twitch in anticipation.

Agron laughed, gasped, pushed back against his lover. “No, Nasir, your cock,” as though they argued. Pulled Nasir’s head towards his neck, skin hungry for skin. Pressed them so tightly together Nasir could feel the moment his lover approached another release. 

“Nasir—“

“Shh,” the smaller man licked and bit at his lover’s neck, “do so, and I shall follow, as always.”

Agron shook, high keening sound, clutched arm around Nasir’s back almost too hard. Nasir followed, muffled cry against Agron’s neck, felt hips stutter with force of release. They moved together for another moment, lost in rush, in waves of desire not yet sated, never sated. They slowed, rocked together a moment longer, stilled. Agron could feel Nasir’s heart race against his back, could feel Nasir’s deep shaking breath. If the gods were real, Agron thought, this would be the moment to thank them.

Too soon, cold mountain air stole in through tent.

“I had forgotten this part,” Nasir admitted sheepishly. Agron could feel his lover’s smile against the back of his neck. “Cloths lie across tent out of arm’s reach.”

Agron laughed aloud, his breathing easy as it had not been in months. He pulled away from Nasir, felt cooled oil spill away from him as he stood. Found pile of torn cloth beside meticulously maintained armor. “Here, move,” pressed one stiff hand to Nasir’s side. The smaller man rolled upon his back; Agron felt flicker of longing. “Soon enough I shall fuck you like this,” he said, used loose oil to wipe spilled seed from his laughing lover, from himself. He made half-hearted attempt at the mess upon their bedroll before Nasir swatted him away. 

“Go, I would have wine and bread. I will clean this tomorrow at the river.”

Agron bowed head, smile upon face. “Your will, my hands.”

/////

“Nasir’s shield contraption worked,” Laeta said as they walked (walked and walked, an eternity of walking, Agron had not walked so much in all his years as he had since taking arms). 

“It did.”

“A clever idea, to lash your arm so. My husband often spoke of the sharp minds of Syrians, although never in kindness.” The Roman woman looked at him, looked away. “Your hands, do they cause much pain?”

They did not, which was the true source of fear. Nasir had learned much from the medicus at his former house, and Agron was no fool. Pain as fire would have been preferred to numbness, which heralded only misfortune. “Not much.”

She made as if to speak again, spurred Agron to take larger steps. He could not stomach another moment in Roman company, stood she forsworn or not. His hands did not ache at flash of crucifixion in memory, but he wished they would do so. Shook head, took deep breath, welcomed cold shock of air. Nasir’s dark head bobbed a few dozen _elle_ ahead, turned down to break soft words with one of the mothers, Drusilla, and her babe, yet to be named. 

“Nasir,” Agron called, reaching one numb hand to pat dumbly at the Syrian’s shoulder. Nasir pressed it with his own, pressed kiss to Agron’s armored shoulder. The mother sang a song to her child, one Agron knew the tune of but not the words. They walked, more, always. Agron felt heat of anger ebb away to be replaced with heat of shame. The constants in his life now were Nasir, numb hands, and anger or shame in equal measure. He could scarce remember when it was not so, when he had not walked for endless miles with roiling stomach and senseless hands. That their path led ever downwards now, toward soft valley full of his own countrymen, did help some, as did his sense of Nasir’s nearness.

The pair passed day’s light into darkness with little talk. Nasir knew the man well enough to know his troubled thoughts and let them be, certain his own prodding would bring forth nothing of value.

As was habit these days, Agron nodded off the instant head hit bed. Walking took heavy toll on a body still in need of long rest, good food, and time to heal. When they stayed awake into the night to kiss, to touch, they felt near dead the next day, and had so taken to meeting while Apollo still reigned to take pleasure in each other. Nasir had learned well to keep cloths and oil within arm’s reach, and to wash and pound their bedroll at water’s edge, enduring good-natured mockery from every angle. Agron had given good reasons to alter guard schedule for some few hours’ leisure, had reluctantly pulled rank to make room for this most needed time. Those who stood guard watched him leave for the tent each day, let small smiles creep onto faces. They could shoulder an extra hour for the peace and quiet in camp, for smiles and jokes and good nature in place of bitterness and rage.

Each night, Nasir unwrapped worn day’s bandages from wounded hands, checked for heat that would signal fever or pus that needed washing. Neither appeared, much cause for comfort. But, each day, his prodding of wounds did not wake Agron. Nail-torn holes through broad hands were mostly healed over now, new skin pulled together, ragged round scar risen, red and angry. Soon enough the man would need not wrap bandages. Each night, Nasir did this, paid tribute to the man who had climbed down from cross and returned from death only to throw himself at it again and, granted miracle, slept now beside him.

He knew well Agron’s disbelief in any gods, but Nasir prayed nonetheless, unceasingly, that Agron’s hands may yet grip again. If they gripped not sword but plow, but cup, but Nasir’s own, it would be enough. Anything short of death would be enough. Agron’s breath continuing was enough for Nasir, his heart still beating was enough. But Agron’s self lay still solely won through blood and sand, and Nasir would not see him fade into pale shade. Nasir wrapped and unwrapped hands, and prayed.

/////

“Agron, you must share our bounty!” Sibyl called to him from a fire, where Laeta and some others gathered. A scarred man raised head, motioned Agron down to sit.

“See,” she said in her soft voice, “Balbus brings forth hares as if Diana herself gives them.”

“Gratitude,” Agron nodded at the man. “For your skill, and generosity.”

The man nodded back, and returned to cleaning carcass. 

“He does not speak much,” Sibyl said softly. “I know not why.”

Agron held no special love for this clutch of women, but Sibyl had been a slave, too, and had given the mad Celt Gannicus something of need in his last days. In this new world, he knew, some parts of past must be dropped at trail’s edge. “Likely he stammers,” he whispered to her, “as his name would tell.”

She looked stricken. “A cruel name for his dominus to give him, then.”

Agron opened his mouth to reply, but interruption sprouted. “These two are yours, you and Nasir.” Laeta pressed them into his hands, pressed his fingers closed absently. “We have given out shares to those who have need, but Balbus insists these two are for you, for your labor.”

Agron hated her more in that moment than even when she stood Roman captive eating his own men’s much-needed food. This thoughtless pity, closing his own hands for him, a man who had stood as a god, a man who had been something more than a man; all he desired in that moment was to lunge at her throat with bared teeth. His eyes widened, his breath came short—then Sibyl’s small hand on his shoulder.

“Agron, Nasir seeks you.” She pointed across the encampment, where firelight glinted off dark hair. “He will be pleased with the hares, will he not?”

Agron filled lungs with smoky air. “He will. Gratitude again, to all.” His hands, closed by the Roman woman, held fast. They held as he lurched upward, they held as he took a step. Agron drew in a gasp, looked to his lover. Matters more pressing than his own shame took hold. 

“Agron?” Nasir stood as a statue, stunned into muteness.

“Look, look at them.” Agron nodded down to his own two hands, bandage-wrapped and dirty. “I cannot close them myself, but it seems if closed by another they stay.”

“Can you open them again?” Nasir’s eyes had stood wide with shock when he saw the man stride over with hands firmly gripped, two fat cleaned hares in them held sure as Agron had ever held sword.

Agron shook his head. “I have not made attempt.” He met Nasir’s gaze with sharp smile. “I did not want to consign us to empty stomach.”

Nasir laughed, pressed kiss to smiling mouth. “Let us see.” 

Agron’s hands creaked, and Nasir could see pain on the man’s face, but open they did, slowly. The hares dropped into Nasir’s waiting grasp, and both men took long pause. “Nasir,” Agron said with care, “place meat on platter that I may kiss you without risk.” Whoops and catcalls rose with smoke as they leapt at each other, and the meat sat forgotten for a time.

/////

The medicus, the same one-armed man from the House of Batiatus, tutted as he bent Agron’s fingers to and fro. “I mislike this numbness still,” he said at last, “but they do strengthen.”

“Is there salve that may help them heal? Or anything at all?” Nasir asked.

The medicus shook his head. “What must heal is inside. A salve for pain, mayhap, if they were hurting, but they are not.” He waved one hand at an assistant, who brought fresh bandage without word. “You would do well to dip them in cold or hot water if they ache, and as often as able, to bend fingers like so, and the wrist, to keep them from turning stiff.”

“That is all I can do?” Agron sneered. Nasir felt his heart leap at sound of life in his love’s voice.

“Unless you want me to chop off offending fucking hand and ask the gods to grow a new one, yes, that is all you can do.” The medicus spat a gob of stinking spit. “Give the hands time, gladiator. They will mend or they will not, and you can do only small things to ferry towards health. Push too hard and see all gained ground lost forever.”

That night Nasir bent Agron’s fingers for him, to and fro, and moved his wrists in circles, first one way and then the other, over and over. Each night, he did the same, and each night Agron swore under his breath at this helplessness.

Some few days later, as dawn broke, Nasir had Agron’s left hand twisted to one side. Agron grimaced, then smiled. “That hurt.”

Nasir’s face brightened. “Did it?”

“Do it again.”

/////

The last night before they reached whatever village stood at valley’s entrance was a feast. Balbus of the hares brought forth bounty. Wine was unstoppered and poured with no wait, bread and cheese unwrapped from long-hidden stores. Foraged nuts and green plants judged unlikely to kill them all rounded out long stretch of food, and all cheered to see remaining gladiators leave their guard to join in.

“We shall make way,” Agron declaimed, “to a holding of good land near clear water, and you shall raise goats or hunt rabbits as you please, and I shall drink and eat and sleep and kiss you, and do nothing else for the rest of my days.”

Nasir laughed. “I am to be your goatherd? Why do I not sleep in the sun plied with wine and promises?”

“You, _liebling_ , are cleverer than I, and so must take on responsibility.” A kiss pressed fondly to bared shoulder. “It is to your honor that I am not yet laid waste by my own many faults, and have so survived to perhaps grow old and fat in the sun.”

Nasir tensed, just a moment, in fear that the mention of survival might spark a fire of grief yet buried. None came, only Agron’s huffing laugh and tired grin. “An honor I hardly deserve,” Nasir said, dry and arch to provoke more of Agron’s laughter. A pause. “It will be lonely there, with no one to share speech in common.” He stuffed haunch of some bird in mouth to stopper up more nervous words.

“You learned three tongues already, why quake you at a fourth?” Agron tore crust of bread, dipped into wine.

“My mother tongue lies mostly absent now. I speak only two, as do you.” Nasir shrugged one shoulder, took a large gulp of wine. “There are no people east of the Rhine who look like me, is it not so?”

Agron shook head, cleared throat. “No, we have Scythians, and some others. My brother,” the briefest of pauses,  “dallied with a girl when we were young, formed much as you are, although I could not swear she stood a Syrian. The free people east of the Rhine are wide-ranging in form, albeit,” a belch interrupted, “many do appear as myself.”

“None that I have yet seen, in the Republic nor anywhere else, appear as yourself.” Nasir smiled, chucked the large man’s chin in affection. “Come to bed. Your head is heavy with drink. I would see it rest in loving arms.”

“And when Apollo wakes, we shall find a man to sell or trade for land of our own. I would not be too far from the others.”

“Nor I.”

/////

The holding was smaller than Nasir expected, and yet so large he despaired of their ever using it all. “Holmgar is a good man,” Agron muttered into his hair as they embraced, “a gentleman of old, like my father.”

“He gives us enough land to starve upon, indeed, and for only the best of our armor and much of our coin.” Nasir tasted sour gall in his mouth, bile rising at buried memory. “We are neither of us farmers, and I see no arena to earn keep in.”

Agron held him tighter. “We bargained fair enough price, for a house built already and for his silence should any fucking Roman wander across mountain. It is worth the cost, Nasir.” A kiss pressed to dark hair. “I have been a farmer’s son once, and the farmers of this place live but paces away to offer guidance. Many freed slaves who journeyed with us settle just a few hours’ ride from here, should we fall upon most dire misfortune.” Agron pulled back, placed one hand on Nasir’s shoulder. He used one side of free hand to help close fingers in clasp, a movement now practiced enough he rarely had to think about it. “And I have two hands, or most of two hands, and you are the cleverest mad dog to either side of the Rhine. We can do this.”

“We likely cannot,” Nasir grumbled. Met his lover’s eyes, tried to marshal some good to speak. “But there is a stream, if nothing else. Mayhap fish choke it with bounty.”

Agron laughed. “What hope, to think of fish in a stream!” He looked Nasir steadily in eye. “If you wish to be elsewhere, we can go. Snow comes atop mountains, but we could push through if we left now.”

“What lies across them?”

A shrug. “Likely some gods-damned Gauls.”

Nasir snorted. “After the snows pass, perhaps.”

/////

It seemed that Agron’s drunken talk of goatherds was to come true.

“Goat meat is hours of work for a few stringy pieces,” Nasir grumped. “We would be better with cattle or horses for the meat.”

“For the meat, no,” Agron had argued, “we need not butcher them often. You hunt as Diana herself, and the stream returns fish well enough. But milk and cheese, and to sell at market, for coin. They will do nicely.”

“Sheep could do much the same, and are more biddable by far,” Nasir replied.

“Sheep are also more stupid than goats, and must be fed better grass than the thorny brush we have here. Goats can eat anything, Nasir.” Agron had brought a goat’s milk cheese from market to better bolster his argument, and took a piece to toast over fire. “The Roman woman’s new husband has a litter of pups, also, from good herding stock. We could have one to guard the goats and our holding, and you could pamper it as you are wont to do with shaggy beasts.” Mention of pups, although he would never acknowledge it, won Nasir over, even for the fucking goats.

////

They were, Nasir had to admit, lovable little things. They would grow soon enough to be huge wolf-fighting guardians, but as they tumbled and played in the yard of Laeta’s new husband’s home, Nasir could not stop a smile. 

“A pair, perhaps, Nasir?” Agron asked. “For pups sell after some years?”

Nasir nodded. “Agreed. That one, I think,” he pointed to a notably smaller one who stood away from the others. “A bitch, yes?”

Laeta nodded. “We’ve not named any of them, but notched ears of the curs to better tell apart.”

“Her, we will take.” Nasir looked to his lover. “She stands calm and watchful.”

“I am to pick the other, then?” Agron looked delighted, a boy again. He made his way to the clutch, brushed hands over soft fur. Nasir watched with fond smile as the gladiator, under pretense of testing, played with pups in the warmth of the sun.

“You look better,” Laeta said. Her eyes searched Nasir’s face. “Both of you do.”

“We feel better, I think.” Nasir did not have the same anger toward the Roman woman as Agron held still, but neither were they friends. He respected her, had learned respect for her work in the camp. “Gratitude, for the offer.” 

She smiled. “Hengist is a generous man.” He was also rich and respected by the people of the town, Nasir knew, and more than a little similar of form to the Bringer of Rain. “He says a kinsman of his has goats to sell, a day’s walk away. Of course, you can borrow one of our horses if you prefer.”

“Gods preserve me from bedeviled goats,” Nasir complained. “Agron will not shut up, speaks only of the glory of a pack of the fucking things.”

Laeta laughed, bell-like, and Agron looked up to meet his lover’s eyes, face soft and fond. “These men and their goats, yes, it is exhausting. I think they fuck them sometimes,” a sly smile, “although I doubt Agron’s interest lies there.”

Nasir snorted. “He has no cause to seek out goats, assurances.” In another life, Nasir would have blushed to speak openly of such things, but time in the rebel camps had stripped much of his shyness away. In Laeta he sensed a similar wisp of entertainment: fun to be had, as odd as such a thing sounded. Here they could earn some joy. Could hold pleasure and laughter, more than had been offered across the mountains. 

“Do you disparage me?” Agron called from where he lay with pups piled atop him. “I can see it on your face, Nasir, you little shit, what lies do you spill?” 

They took home the calm girl Nasir had picked, and a rowdy cur with notched ear Agron would not put down. “Petra,” Agron named the girl, “solid as stone, and Faunus for this little shit here.” Nasir watched his lover carry home them perched upon shoulders. Petra fell fast asleep not a few paces from Laeta’s husband’s home. When Faunus pissed down Agron’s shoulder, Nasir laughed until he nearly pissed himself as well. 

The pups lolled before the fire, ate scraps of meat from hand, and fell asleep that night curled together as tightly as did Agron and Nasir.

/////

Farvald’s goats were scrawny things, and loud. Their bleats crowded out all but shouted voices. “Those seven, kinsman from across Alps gave,” he called in heavily accented tongue, pointed to a clutch of mottled gray-black goats that, to Nasir’s eyes, looked no different to any other of the dozens of mottled gray-black goats that shat and argued before them. “You may have for bargain, as I welcome brother home.” The small blond man clapped Agron’s shoulder with some difficulty, reached higher than his own head to do so. Agron hid a smile, met his lover’s eyes.

“Stand you certain, Farvald? We would not cheat a kinsman of earned coin,” Agron said. 

The smaller man already shook head in refusal before sentence ended. He switched to Agron’s native tongue, and Nasir watched the two men haggle, broad smiles on their faces. 

His lover stood much changed. Agron was muscled still as a man of war, but softened some from days not spent training for the arena. There was no shortage of work on the holding, but it was different work than killing a man before cheering crowds. There was much to be done, always: the roof needed new thatch, Nasir longed for a solid bed and table, Agron wanted a three-sided shed of stone for the eventual goats. They spent time, too, foraging and planning for food. Despite Nasir’s fears, they would not likely starve. They would not feast either, not often. Market stood a day’s walk away, though what coin they had kept was beginning to run low. Nasir had plans for a garden, the raised wooden beds preferred by this village’s people, but that would have to wait for first break of frost. Agron was a good fisherman, it turned out, and Nasir’s skill with a spear kept meat on their table more days than not. Laeta too often sent over one of her husband’s innumerable nephews with bread or wine, often both. Agron hid whatever gall the gifts brought up, and sent back freshly slaughtered rabbits or gleaming fish. Nasir was proud of him in those moments, even as his lover cursed the Roman woman with every foul word tongue knew. 

At long last, Agron and Farvald seemed to reach an accord, and Agron used one stiff finger to count out a few coins into hand. Nasir noted the amount, added it to his mental tally of their stores. A moment’s despair: they needed new clothes, warmer, for the biting cold Agron warned of, and the pups ate more than the two men did. They needed salt to keep the meat from autumn’s bounty through the winter, and wine to stave off the bite of cold, and oil, for several reasons. Cloth and thread and needle to sew blankets to warm them. Nasir had always been good at making lists. Agron was not wanton with their coin, and Nasir would not spend a bit if he could barter instead, but every time they brought out the shining metal Nasir felt a clench of fear. The coins were Roman, and should any in the village wish to betray them—

Agron interrupted, always, with reassurance. “Nasir, look at coins in market when we visit. Half of those in every purse are Roman anyway, or from fucking Gauls. Our paltry sum can hide there among its brothers.” Some of the coins went to be melted down, to make jewelry for wives and inlay for weapons. None here would risk the wrath of two gladiators, nor of the Roman woman and her rich husband, and Nasir knew well there was no love for the Republic across the Rhine. Nasir believed him, saw truth of his words, but every time Rome’s shadow loomed it nearly brought him to his knees. He could feel it now, terror rising in the back of his throat. 

A wet nose in hand shook him out of dark thoughts. He smiled down at Petra, her huge dark eyes steady on his face. They had more faith that she would behave than Faunus, and had left him shut up in the house with a roasted bird to himself. Nasir ran fingers through her thick fur, breathed. Watched Agron clasp arms with Farvald, watched them tie seven mottled goats together. Nasir still could not tell those goats from the others. Petra could, went as if she had been trained already, nosed the lollygaggers forward, stared down any leaf that threatened to move. Nasir’s heart lightened.

Nasir would not speak well of Agron’s prophecy that he would pamper the dogs, but he did see its truth. He picked burrs and fleas from their shaggy coats, stroked fur until it nearly shone. He taught Petra tricks he’d seen dogs belonging to dominus learn, despite the sick feeling in his stomach sometimes at thoughts of that house. “Good girl,” he crooned in her ear as he untangled mats in her fur, “good, good girl.” Sometimes he looked up to see Agron smile fondly at the pair of them. Not that Agron was any less besotted with Faunus. The dog was going to be huge, already roped with muscle, and Agron wrestled the notched-ear cur each day until they lay panting and happy. 

The two pups took to the goats just as Laeta’s husband had promised, generations of careful breeding bloomed into mastery. Faunus harried the slowest goats and bullied the wanderers, barked at anything that moved. Petra watched, silent and still, and made no move not necessary. When a hungry beast sniffed around the stones of the enclosure, she exploded, tore its throat out before Faunus or the two men even realized anything had happened. For her victory, she earned a square of cheese, toasted and topped with honey. That she soon enough vomited it up did not lessen the two men’s happiness.

The fucking goats took well enough to their plot of land. Agron swore and shoved and could not get one wall-eyed buck to move until Faunus helped; when it bit him, Nasir named that one Ferox. The fattest they named Moppel, the stupidest Bescheuert, the sweetest Mela, the handsomest Ravus. Mausgrau and Lugo rounded out the lot - Lugo had been named already, by Farvald’s son, but it felt right to have the man live on in a short, muscled goat with the loudest bleat of all. Agron took to sitting atop the three-sided rock building in which the animals slept, watching the dogs and goats play. Nasir thought Mausgrau would make a good breeder, her belly already heavy with kids by autumn’s middle. The kids would likely not survive the winter, but they could eat them, and when breeding season came again they could sell her next born. A good-sized patch of mushrooms of a type Agron knew from childhood lay mere steps from their door. The creek teemed with fat silver fish. Nasir had made bread on occasion in dominus’s house, and relearned the skill. The goats grew. The pups grew. Agron and Nasir thrived.

The first cheeses were disasters. Nasir had not the touch for them, served Agron rancid milk and shrugged. “It never turned into cheese.”

“Think you it is magic?” Agron choked out as he downed some wine to wash taste from tongue. “Patience and a steady hand, don’t hurry.”

The smaller man’s eyes darkened. “Perhaps you should man the pot, then, gladiator, and I will go with Petra and Faunus to move fucking goats.”

Agron felt the bull of his rage rear up within him, tacked it down. “Agreed. When you return I will have such cheese for you as gods would long for.” He was not wrong. The cheese brought good price at market, and tasted better toasted than the ones they had brought home. Honey from neighbor Geir’s log hives sweetened everything, and they paid with Agron’s strength to repair stone fence, with rabbits from Nasir’s spear, with loan of ax to chop wood.

With bread and cheese, with rest, with nights before the fire, with sunshine and fresh air, their wounds at last began to heal for good. Agron’s hands improved each day. He wrapped them still in cloth, more from habit and a quiet nervousness than from true need. Nasir thought it likely his lover would never swing a sword in the same way again, but Agron seemed not to even think of it. Rejoiced over being able to grip Nasir by cock or shoulder, at running hands through hair and feeling, at pressing fingers into Nasir’s ass slicked with oil and want. Before Agron had been hoisted upon cross, before their last screaming plunge into madness of war, before endless trek across mountain range, their lovemaking had often been hurried, frantic, desperate. Hunger for each other never sated, never enough time or space to themselves, never satisfied. 

Now, though, it differed. Desire surged steady and strong, had abated not at all, but panic ebbed away more each day. They had time, now. Time to linger, to enjoy. They did not have to tear each other apart for fear another moment would never present itself. Lips could linger, long solace-seeking kisses that seemed never to begin or end, only to have always been. Touch could trail across bare skin, over fabric, through hair, could trace fine detail in lover’s face and form, could take its time. Fucking could be, instead of hurried under promise of battle, a day’s work in and of itself. Together, they learned new ways: no less passionate, no less earth-shaking. Agron still boasted of his godlike prowess, Nasir still smiled full of filth and wicked ideas, but there was, too, a peace about their movements in bed. They could have each other. No one would take the other away, whether for blood or brotherhood or the Bringer of Rain in need of counsel. They ate and slept and drank and fucked, and though they fell into bed exhausted each night and did not have a groaning table of sumptuous food, though they swore at the goats and each other and the fucking sky, they found clear and simple happiness here. Like the water in their creek, it flowed easy and endless, and even shouting matches and cold nights did not disrupt it.

/////

First snow came soft in the night. “It is beautiful,” Nasir said when sun rose. “Snow did not look like this in mountain pass.”

Agron laughed, focused on clearing snowfall from roof of goat shed. “Beautiful now. First snow always is. When we were young, Mama would tell us not to eat the first snow.”

Nasir glanced at his lover, noted the slow-growing ease with which he spoke of family long dead. “Why not?”

“I know not. Next snow will be worse.” Agron cleared shed off at last, hands red and stinging. “We shall have need of furs soon enough. Ishild will give us fair price, perhaps two of Mausgrau’s kids.” The three kids had not, as expected, survived birth, but they were well-formed and would fetch good price or offer a good meal. 

“Two?” Nasir clucked his tongue, habit learned from Laeta’s husband. “We gave only one to the shoe maker, did we not?” 

Agron nodded. “Yes. For two good boots apiece. A steal.” He kissed his lover’s chilled cheek. “Because he finds you beautiful and will not say so.”

Nasir laughed. “He is of a form, but is he not wed?”

A shrug. “No sin to appreciate beauty where it lies for all to see.” With wicked smile, Agron slipped freezing hands into Nasir’s warm cloak. As his lover screeched and shoved, Agron pulled him in for a kiss. “Audamar, maker of shoes, is of a form, you say?”

Nasir returned the kiss, brought heat to their cold faces. “Not that compares with you.” 

Later, as they dozed, Nasir sighed. “You, who would rather throw fist than use sweet words with a merchant, know everyone. I struggle.”

“You get on well with the Roman woman and her horde.” Agron traced love bites on Nasir’s shoulder with two fingers. His hands these days worked near as well as any man’s, at least any man who’d broken them before. “The others are names I know from childhood. Ishild was my mother’s sister’s name.” He pressed teeth to one fading mark, deliberate and careful, deepening it so it would remain through the night. “And I bargain as well as any man.”

Nasir laughed, pulled face to face and pressed kiss to lips. “I meant no offense. Only that in Rome, I knew everyone. Even with the rebels and in mountains, everyone was known to me, and I held some place.” He trailed one hand down Agron’s chest, felt muscle still strong as iron even under weight gained in peace and safety and good food. “Here I am only your man, the little dark outlander who comprehends not.”

Agron rolled to back, tucked one arm around his lover. A pause. “Would you learn my tongue?” Nasir grinned, wicked, and Agron laughed aloud. “Not my meaning, little shit.”

“I would master your barbarian speech.” Each word punctuated with a kiss, to offer proof of teasing and no harm meant.

“You are as Minerva when you set your mind to learn. I have scars to prove it.” They kissed again, long and slow, no aim in sight. “We shall have you swearing by Yule.”

/////

Yule had not yet arrived when Nasir swore a blue streak at a loose chicken that knocked him from feet in market. He clutched tightly the offending bird, held it despite mad beat of wings above his own head, roared. Agron laughed until he had to squat lest he fall. 

“I shall offer tribute,” the chicken’s owner said with smile. “Gladiator, bested by one of my own hens! Take her, if you wish, as an apology.”

“Why would I keep fucking menace in home?” Nasir’s face stood red still, from anger and embarrassment in equal parts. 

The man offered hand, clasped Nasir’s arm in Roman way. “She’s a good layer, even if she is named Dummkopf. If you have no need of eggs, eat her. Your man can pluck feathers these days, I would bet.”

Nasir laughed, red faded from face at last. The man, Einarr, had come from farther north, offered to bring another gift of a fine dagger to the gladiators’ home on the morrow. Agron nodded assent, still beaming, and they parted ways.

“What causes such look?” Nasir asked as they carried dead hen home. “As though you’d been presented with sheep to fuck.” 

Agron shoved Nasir with one shoulder, chuckled again. “I have no need of goats to fuck. I smile for you.”

“At my defeat by this,” Nasir gestured with hand holding fowl.

Head shook, “No, you - did you not hear yourself speak? Our tongue, as though you were born to it. With the man.”

Nasir stopped. The two of them most often spoke Roman tongue, but Agron taught with patience and a steady hand, as he had in all things save fucking and war. “I had not realized.”

“I did.” Agron smiled, looked as always ten years younger. “I have always believed in you, Nasir.”

When Einarr brought the dagger, which was finer than he had said, Nasir protested. “A gift too rich for mere loss of balance.” He caught Agron’s eye, saw twitch of smile. 

Einarr’s face, grave as it had been in market, lightened. “Payment for amusement, then.” The three men chuckled at memory of Nasir’s tumble. “And, it must be said, daggers here sell for so little I would not make back cost of purchase on its sale. These Germans,” he said, nodded at Agron, “they prefer warhammers fit for Thor, or an ax to cleave the Rhine. No appreciation for small and delicate things.”

Nasir tensed, just a bit, sensed more to words offered. “Many appear as such, yes. Though most have hidden tenderness. One man we know, tall as a horse, carves tiny wooden ducks for any who fail to beg him not to.” He looked at Agron, who had tensed more noticeably. “Or my own Agron, who carried sword and shield and ax and anything else that could kill a man, with such ease as the gods, but, too, makes this most magnificent cheese and coddles our dogs with fatherly affection.” When he placed a very slight stress on “our,” Agron eased. As subtly as it had been offered, invitation was retracted, and pleasant meal ensued. Agron’s jealousy only rarely flared into rage these days, but Nasir limped a bit (and blushed wildly) all the next day from Agron’s staking of claim.

For Yule, they reveled. Einarr was discovered tumbled in a dark corner with one of Laeta’s prettiest nephews, to peals of laughter and good-natured ribbing. Sibyl, who had taken up with a local man, took only a little wine, one hand on her swelling belly. The maker of shoes and the fur peddler and the widow blacksmith all raised glass to Nasir and Agron, who brought cheese and freshly slaughtered goat and consented to stage a battle in celebration. They faced each other, Agron paired with Leviticus (who brought with him Aemilia, womb full again, and new-walking son Magnus) and Nasir with Pollux (who brought a woman from his new village, with whom Belesa shared a passing resemblance). They grinned and leapt at each other to cheers and drunken wagers. Nasir and Pollux fought as they had been trained, long spear Hoplomachi, and triumphed over Leviticus, Murmillo, and Agron, who fought that day as Thraex. At battle’s end, as the defeated raised two fingers in surrender, Nasir pulled Agron to him for searing kiss. Pollux laughed, pulled Leviticus to his feet and kissed him soundly, good-natured mockery to a roaring crowd. 

“You beat a man from east of the Rhine on his own soil,” Thalia, wizened wine merchant Nasir knew from market, crowed “you must have a new amphora, our best of the year!” 

“At a fair price, I shall take it,” Nasir replied.

“At Yule? Never. My gift.” Nasir bowed, took amphora, and pressed kiss to the old woman’s cheek. 

The scene continued, drunken singing raised to the gods and fires burning merrily. Blood spilled by sacrifice was given in cups, holy meat charred and shared equally. Kisses and jests bounced between all, with no ill intent seeming to accompany. Nasir caught his lover’s eye across wide open plain and smiled. Raised glass in toast. Hazy with drink and comfort, he wandered to a seat near Agron’s.

“Let no one place a child on knee tonight,” Agron muttered in his ear, “for if you do we shall be saddled with it, and the fucking dogs are bad enough.”

Nasir laughed, kissed his lover. “Some other Yule, perhaps.” 

A long pause, then a small smile on his lover’s face. “Perhaps.” 

/////

Long nights and wicked cold kept them in the small hut that winter, even as they paced and fought for lack of action. A quarrel over nothing could spin into screaming shoving match over old hurts long buried. They both carried with them the memories of those long silent weeks atop the mountains, and both could feel the edges where, if they gave up, they could slip there again. If their grasp loosened, they could fall apart, and so the two clung to each other perhaps too tightly instead. Nasir’s quick temper, Agron’s eternal simmering rage: they were always sparks for fire, but snowed in with no one nearby to distract, they fought often and loudly. Too, they fucked often and loudly, and if the two activities were sometimes difficult to tell apart, well, ’twas the season for such things.  

After one such session, when hurts had been salved with apologies and sweet words and mouths and tongues put to better use, they lay on the stretch of soft skins atop their bed. Nasir half-asleep, Agron’s fingers carded in his long hair. Though they were still stiff, especially in the cold, the feeling had mostly returned, and rarely did Agron have need of help these days to grip things firmly. 

“Would you like a story, _liebling_?” Agron asked, his voice scratchy from earlier noise.

Nasir laughed and rolled to face him. “A story, yes, why not. Tell me a story, O muse.”

Agron kissed him once, twice, soft press of lips with infinite tenderness. “We should have Theobald tell it, he is more poet than I.”

“If you can spirit him here from far side of valley without leaving warmth of bed, begone and bring him.” Nasir kissed his lover, losing some heat from the blankets as his shoulder lifted.

“You’re letting in cold air,” Agron muttered, pulled him closer. “I know the story but know not how to place it in poem where it belongs. Will you pretend, when Theobald tells it at the springtime feast, that you have not heard its like?”

“I am a skilled liar, as you well know.” Another kiss shared with smiling lips.

“The finest this side of the mountains, indeed.” Agron rolled away slightly, laid on his back, one arm holding Nasir close. He rested the other on his chest, pressed slightly to stretch out bent fingers. “Once there was a young man, Hadubrand, and an older man, Hildebrand, and they met on field of battle for glorious combat. They were from neighboring lands, deadly enemies, and they were sent to end long-lasted war with single battle.” Nasir opened mouth to ask teasing question, which Agron stopped with kiss. “Hildebrand was a man long in years, but he had no sons, and when he came to the field, he saw in younger man’s face something of his own, and opened mouth to ask question…” The story carried them into sleep, warm and wrapped up safe. 

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Wildflowers" by Tom Petty
>
>> Run away, find you a lover  
> Go away somewhere all bright and new  
> I have seen no other  
> Who compares with you
> 
> The story Agron begins is called the Hildebrandslied, it's real and old and cool and searchable AF online if you wanna read it or listen to it.


End file.
